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Walking along a dark, soft and grey road
lit by melons, full of criminals,
held by stalagmites rooted in the sky.
Waiting for the lucky strike
that burns the tip of your lips

"How many jokes can a colorful mind do
So, Mr. Shepperd, why don't you do something concrete?
Why don't you stop riding mountains
and complaining about time passing by?"

So many things can be done with words
Such as trying to make a song meaningful

Dancing lights make my shadow bigger
and it rises beyond their thoughts
Under me the mob moves and shouts
like a tamed chimera, waiting for my arrival
Unfortunately it's getting late, it's time to wake up